The House on Hummingbird Island

by Sam Angus

  Nelson, the man who’d gone to Pomeroy to fetch her back. Nelson, who’d been turned away at the door by Silent. She looked, horrified, at the long line of men that queued there, so eager to rush to the defence of a country they barely knew. Nelson turned and kissed Mayella’s forehead, put an arm around her shoulder and stepped forward to the table even as she pulled him back.

  ‘Why?’ Idie asked Austin. ‘Why do so many want to go?’

  ‘They’ll all go, Idie. There’s so little work here. The price of everything is rising, wages are falling. What choice have they got?

  That night Mayella said to Idie, ‘My father says this war is his chance, this war will be an opportunity for us, good for the people here. But what if he never comes back? What kind of a chance is that? Thank the Lord, Sampson not going – you know how much money they need – fifteen dollars every man from here must pay. And you know what they say – the English don’t give guns to the black men, only to the white man, and the black man he does only the digging and the carrying. Oh my Lord, my father is going to go all the same, but what sort of opportunity is just carrying and digging?’

  44

  As the months of the war trickled by, discontent and unrest grew. There were strikes and rising prices and food shortages and the world had been at war for over a year when Gladstone came for Idie and said, ‘You’re fifteen now, missus, there or thereabouts. It’s time you saw all the things you have.’

  That year Austin came less often and Idie began to spend her mornings riding about the estate with Gladstone. At his side she came to understand the timing of the crops, the risks, the rewards, the prices, the conditions, the hours her men worked and the payroll. Slowly she tried to understand the web of interlocking lives of those that worked there, of the Quarterlys and Sealys and Mayleys. Clement Mayley kept Numbers informed by letter as to things regarding the estate. Gladstone, Idie noted, held everything in his head; it was his grandson Clement who committed the accounts to paper and wrote the reports for Numbers.

  ‘We lose two men this week, mistress, both of them signed up,’ Gladstone told Idie one day. ‘And there’re strikes everywhere, all across the island. It’s possible we’ll have them here.’

  ‘Strikes here?’ asked Idie.

  ‘The wages are low. That makes them discontented.’

  ‘Can’t we raise them?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, mistress. I am glad you’ve asked. We will do that.’

  Idie rose to leave Gladstone’s office, but at the door she turned and said, ‘Why do they want to fight? Why do they leave and go so far away to fight for Britain?’

  ‘George is our king. We’re fighting for him, just as the British are,’ he answered simply.

  ‘It’ll be over before they get there.’

  Gladstone said, ‘Some think that if they fight it will help us –’ Idie saw his fingers touch the dark skin of his arm – ‘that it will help advance us in government and things.’

  That simple touch of his fingers to the skin of his arm told Idie of all the differences and divisions that scarred the little island, and she was silent awhile and thoughtful till she remembered what Austin had said and asked, ‘Gladstone, can we increase the amount of sugar we grow? It’ll go up in price if the war goes on.’

  A broad white smile broke over his face as he looked at the young girl who sat at the large desk with a parakeet on her shoulder and a monkey at her side and he said, ‘Yes, mistress, I have for a long time wanted to do that too.’

  Gladstone spoke slowly always, his words considered and kept to a minimum. Men of few words are the best men. Grancat had taught Idie that, telling her it came from Shakespeare. Idie still thought it surprising, a) that Shakespeare should say such a thing, given that he was so prone to outpourings of words himself, and b) that Grancat knew any Shakespeare at all.

  When Austin did come to visit, Idie was aware of the increasing distance between them. He no longer wore red shirts to summon hummingbirds nor did he go about with creatures in his pockets. It was as though he’d taken a leap towards adulthood and left her behind. If they went to the beach he did not swim, nor hunt among the rocks for crayfish or whistle for lizards. Something in him had changed, but when or how it had changed Idie didn’t know. As for herself, the war, the strikes, the rising prices, food shortages and discontent were pressing their dark, sharp teeth into the dreamy consciousness of her girlhood, but she was still a girl, still a girl who didn’t want to be an adult.

  45

  Bathsheba

  St Lucy

  7th March 1915

  Dear Myles,

  Do you know I am fifteen now? That makes you sixteen. The war will be over before you can sign up, but if you do sign up I’ll write and tell them your feet are flat because I know they are. Please send me more news of Benedict. I do wish he wasn’t going to Gallipoli and I do wish you would write to me more often and longer letters. I know girls are much better at writing than boys, but please do try.

  Did you know there’s voluntary enrolment here? King George said he wanted troops from the West Indies so each island must send some men. Lots of them want to go, but they have to pay their own passage and the only things they are allowed to do are the carrying and digging. That doesn’t seem right, but in some ways I am glad because it means Sampson can’t afford to go. Gladstone says we can’t lose any more men or there’ll be no one left.

  The sugar is fetching a good price because of the war, but we cannot get lots of things now because so few ships get through. For example, we can’t get fabric for clothes or new pots and pans or anything.

  Love Idie

  46

  More troops left from the Indies soon after this, and all the people of the island gathered to see them go. Mayella wept and the brass band played ‘Soldiers of the King’. The trained men of the British West Indies Regiment stood on the dock and the feathers of the topis of the colonial police fluttered and a breeze stirred the leaves of the palms and the hearts of all that watched as the brigadier said, ‘Some of you may be killed, many wounded, but may those who fall, fall gloriously, your faces to the foe, the light of victory on your bayonets.’

  The dark horses and the white uniforms and the beating flags and everything looked grand and splendid. The brigadier bellowed and someone bugled and the sun rose behind the white building of Government House and five hundred fine young men embarked to serve their God and country. Fleecy clouds veiled the sun and cast a shimmering light over all the pomp and panoply, and Idie looked on as if it were all happening in a dream. She’d thought the war would be over by now, not that men would be boarding ships as though the whole thing had only just begun.

  ‘All the men are going and leaving us here,’ sobbed Mayella. ‘Is nine penny a day to cut the cane and the British Army it pays eighteen penny a day, so, what you see, all the young men they’re going to go.’

  Idie wondered whether she could raise the wages at Bathsheba still higher.

  ‘Father he says the war will be good for us, that after they going to give us place in government and give us all the things the white men have, but what do we want all that for if all the young men be dead?’ Mayella wondered aloud amidst fresh tears. Idie took her hand and together they watched the men embark, Idie wondering what they’d make of England when they arrived, and what the white soldiers would make of them.

  Phibbah unclamped her pipe from her mouth and jabbed a scrawny arm towards a troop of scouts parading past the garrison.

  ‘Master Austin,’ whispered Mayella, open-mouthed, turning to Idie. Then added with a wicked smile, ‘He very handsome, missus.’

  Idie tensed. Austin? Did he mean to go one day too?

  The scouts drew closer. Idie pursed her lips as they passed. Austin was at the head of the column, taller and older than his troops, and he winked as he passed Idie and swung his arms smartly. Idie noted the long socks he wore, the green gaiters, khaki shorts and khaki jacket with two stars above the breast pocket. She scowled ag
ain. He had a stripe on his sleeve and badges all the way up his arm, on his hat the badge of a patrol leader, and all those badges and stripes were upsetting when he’d never told her anything. That stripe meant something, perhaps a year in service. A year, and he’d said nothing.

  ‘Maybe Master Austin will go to war also. All the scouts they become soldiers one day,’ commented Mayella.

  ‘He will not. We don’t believe in war. He promised. Anyway, he’s too young.’

  ‘All the young boys they grow up,’ commented Mayella. ‘He’s maybe sixteen now.’ That was the moment, when Idie was fifteen and saw Austin march by as head of the scouts, that the world around her sharpened and came into view, the moment when trust, the shield of her childhood, shrank back and when all the shifting shadows in her head began to gather.

  47

  Idie went alone to St Lucy. She wasn’t prone to going to church but she needed somewhere to be alone and think. She was often lonely now, and when she was alone she’d think of the times she’d spent with Austin. She stored those times she’d spent with him like precious marbles in a chest, and as she sat there alone in St Lucy she ran her fingers through those marbles, remembering the long, lovely, shining days.

  She rose and left the church and wandered out among the turkeys and the gravestones. She looked out across the sea. Somewhere far away over that sea was Benedict, who wanted to show the Germans a thing or two, and Myles, who wanted to wear uniform.

  She rested her hand on a gravestone. The granite was cool and smooth and newly polished and her eyes fell, idly, on the engraving that was sharp and all picked out in black. A jar of ginger lilies stood there, gaudy and jarring with the restraint of the stone. Idie stepped back and saw, with a clutch at the throat, the inscription:

  In Loving Memory of Arnold Grace.

  Born 1830, died 1875.

  Arnold. My grandfather. She touched her fingers to the stone and kept them there awhile. Of course the Graces would be buried here, being Anglican. This church was where they’d’ve been christened, blessed, married and buried. She lifted her head. Her mother and father would be here too and yet she’d never thought to look. She searched about for other Graces, but as she turned she found Carlisle before her.

  ‘Mistress Grace,’ he said. He nodded to her and, still watching her, he crossed himself and knelt. He placed a prayer book on the ground and stood the vase of ginger lilies more upright. Idie watched, confused and frightened that he should be there straightening the ginger lilies and kneeling before her own grandfather. Carlisle crossed himself again and rose, and Idie straightened herself, stood up tall and took a deep breath.

  ‘Where are my father and my mother buried?’

  ‘No, mistress,’ he answered. ‘There was no church burial for them.’

  Idie didn’t know then why they might not have been buried in a church, but she heard the scorn in his voice and she willed herself to look him straight in the eye and her voice to betray no weakness, and she countered as casually as she could, ‘Thank you, Quarterly.’

  ‘Good afternoon, mistress,’ he said, and turned and left.

  Idie stared at the ginger lilies, suddenly hot and frightened. Then she saw on the ground before the lilies the prayer book Carlisle had forgotten. Trembling, she bent to pick it up and held it, not liking to touch it much, for it was Carlisle’s. It was of ivory leather, a little freckled with mildew. She opened it and saw, written in blue ink, in hesitant, careful letters:

  Honey Quarterly

  Beneath it a photograph was pasted. Through the grey speckles of its surface, a woman gazed frankly into the lens, her eyes dark and large and lovely, her strong dark arms cradling a bundle in a snowy shawl. The lace collar of her dress formed a bow beneath her collar bone, the ties of it falling loosely to the baby, whose tiny hand reached up to them.

  Idie heard a short, bitter laugh and looked up.

  ‘That is the only picture I have of her,’ said Carlisle, holding out his hand for it, his eyes shining and strange.

  Idie gave it to him and watched him leave. Why did he kneel at her grandfather’s grave? Was it he who put the fresh flowers there? A sudden, strange, spinning feeling came into her skull.

  48

  At Bathsheba Idie found Gladstone and Sampson in the stables.

  ‘Gladstone, tell me about Carlisle.’

  The men turned to one another.

  ‘Who are his family?’ Idie asked.

  Gladstone paused. She saw the apprehension in his eyes, heard the hesitation in his voice, the careful words. ‘As you know, his father is Enoch Quarterly.’ Gladstone paused again. Idie waited and he went on. ‘His mother was Honey Quarterly.’

  ‘Where is Honey now?’ asked Idie.

  ‘She died in childbirth. He’s been angry, always, since then.’

  So this was the reason for the bitterness in Carlisle. His mother had died giving birth to him, and ever since he’d felt guilty, and angry too perhaps, with that vicious kind of anger that comes from guilt.

  ‘I see,’ said Idie to Gladstone. ‘Thank you.’

  She turned and walked towards the house, then stopped, something new suddenly coming clear to her. If Carlisle was the baby in Honey’s arms, then Honey had died giving birth not to Carlisle but to some other child. Honey had had another child, but Carlisle had no brother or sister that Idie knew of.

  The spinning feeling came into her skull once more. She lifted a hand to her forehead as if to quiet the shadowy, flapping thoughts that were in it. The skin of her forehead was burning to the touch. She went upstairs to the loggia where it was cool and fresh and she’d be alone. She gazed out over the nodding mopheads of the palms. The sea was stirred and fretful in the wind, but she felt hot and limp and the breeze had no power to cool her. The separate things she knew were like the pieces of a puzzle. Only they were swelling and changing shape and growing confused with one another:

  The butler who knelt at her grandfather’s grave.

  The baby his mother had died giving birth to.

  Idie’s own parents’ wish that the butler should have life tenure at Bathsheba.

  The creek where no one went.

  None of the clues joined together or made any sense at all, and they were all dark and shifting.

  49

  Dear Myles,

  You have made even less improvement in letter writing than Homer has in conversation so you will have to come to visit me instead when the shipping can get through because I know you will like it.

  Delilah has broken the spell that Carlisle had over Celia, because Celia is growing softer. She makes dresses for me, and the two things that make her happy are sewing and Delilah. She feeds Delilah bananas and knits scarves for her. Delilah loves bananas, which you wouldn’t really expect in a deer.

  Anyway, I am going to tell you some things that I know for the Idie Book and also some things that I don’t know:

  1. Carlisle, the butler, can live here forever because that is what my father wished.

  2. Carlisle’s mother is Honey. Honey had another child and when she had that other child she died.

  3. I don’t know who that other child is.

  4. Carlisle kneels at my grandfather’s grave and puts flowers there but I don’t know why he would do that.

  OTHER THINGS I DON’T KNOW:

  That’s more or less EVERYTHING else, e.g. why no one will tell me ALL the things that are NORMAL for children to know about themselves.

  Love Idie

  PS & MOST IMPORTANT:

  PLEASE visit soon. Austin doesn’t come round very often any more, and even if you have monkeys and parakeets and turtles it can be lonely and sometimes my head gets hot and swims with all the things inside it and sometimes I am scared.

  50

  Thoughts of Carlisle troubled Idie throughout the night, and when she rose next morning she determined she would go back to Gladstone.

  At the foot of the veranda she paused, a hand on the balustrade, weak with the heat a
nd dizzied by the scent of the ivory flowers that grew there.

  Mayella stepped out of the kitchen and Idie said, ‘Please ask Enoch to cut these flowers down today.’

  ‘Carlisle told his father to leave them there.’

  ‘It is my garden,’ Idie hissed.

  ‘But Enoch is afraid of his son. Carlisle he angry, very angry jus’ now, he like a burning thing, more angry than he ever were, and Enoch he scared.’

  Idie crossed the lawn and the dead hand of the sun was white and fierce on her bare head, the blue of the sky too vibrant, the green of the trees too green and gross. She sank against the cool stone wall of the stable and said, ‘Sampson, please can we saddle the horses and go to Gladstone?’

  ‘Storm is coming,’ Sampson said, hesitating.

  ‘Fetch the tack,’ Idie commanded testily, and Sampson bowed his head and turned for it.

  A weight at the back of Idie’s head throbbed and the space behind her temple pulsed. As they reached the cacao plantation, Sampson pointed, grinning, to the red and orange pods that hung on little stalks directly from the boughs. Beneath them, supervised by Gladstone and Clement, stood a line of workers, poking sticks upward to jolt them down.

  ‘Cacao does not hurt the hands like sugar cane,’ said Sampson. ‘Is good.’

  Idie shivered. Her arms were shaking and sort of uncontrollable and she was glad Baronet was behaving himself. Clement held out a hand as she dismounted.

  ‘Mistress?’ asked Gladstone, smiling gently and lifting his hat.

  Leaving Clement and Sampson with the horses, Idie and Gladstone walked together between the trees, the dead leaves crackling beneath their feet. Idie said, ‘Honey was Carlisle’s mother; Enoch was his father.’

  ‘Is so, mistress.’

  ‘Then why does he kneel at my grandfather’s grave? What is he to do with my grandfather?’